by Mary Maxwell
I didn’t see any value in discussing the messiness of small children, so I made another suggestion. “Then maybe it was someone else named Bitsy.”
Dina nodded solemnly and made a note. “I suppose it could be. I knew an Elizabeth in college; her family called her Bitsy. It’s a common enough nickname.”
“And if that’s the case,” I said, “you’d need to consider interviewing all of the women by that name here in town.”
“That’s a pretty big group,” Dina said. “Although I’ve got to ID the victim before I do anything else.”
“You didn’t find a wallet?”
She shook her head. “His pockets were empty,” Dina answered. “With the exception of this tag.” She pulled a translucent evidence bag from her pocket. “It looks like some sort of code or acronym.”
“May I?”
She gave me the bag and I held it up for inspection. The item inside was a square of white paper with bright red string looped through a hole in one end. The code that Dina had referred to was a series of letters, numbers and symbols. On one side, printed in black ink, the cipher read: AN914$80<$65. On the other, someone had used a green marker to write a similar notation: PW1215/70. As a frequent shopper at Becca Hancock’s vintage clothing store near the center of town, I instantly recognized the tag and code.
“This is from Timeless Gold,” I said.
Dina raised her eyebrows. “The thrift store?”
“Not thrift,” I said. “Vintage. There’s a big difference, and Becca knows her stuff. She handpicks everything for the shop. I’ve found some amazing goodies there since I moved back from Chicago.”
“Such as?”
“A classic Chanel jacket,” I said. “It cost a pretty penny, but in Chicago it would’ve been three or four times as much.”
Dina held out her hand and I gave her the evidence envelope. Then she studied the small paper tag. “So, if this is from Becca’s store…” She paused, glancing over at me. “Then maybe our John Doe was a customer.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s possible he bought the tuxedo from Becca. I remember seeing two or three in the men’s section there a few weeks ago.”
She held up the tag. “So? What do these letters and numbers mean?”
I quickly explained Becca’s code. The initials and numbers in black referred to the employee who had priced the garment and the date it was added to the store’s inventory. The first dollar amount was the price when the item went on the rack. The less-than symbol and figure indicated the lowest possible amount in case someone tried to negotiate on the item. The entry in green ink documented the employee who sold the item as well as the date and amount.
“I don’t follow,” said Dina. “Do you mean that people can bargain with Becca and try to pay less than she’s asking for something?”
I nodded. “It’s not uncommon. Especially with some vintage clothing stores. Becca knows what things are worth. And she knows what she needs to sell them for in order to make a profit.”
Dina flashed a tired smile. “Thanks for filling me in, Katie. I’ll stop by Becca’s store tomorrow and see if she remembers selling the tuxedo to our vic.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“You know I will,” she said. “I’ll see you around.”
CHAPTER 7
The cool air felt refreshing as I walked out to my car. The chaos and confusion of the past few hours had left me feeling drained and weighed down by the heaviness of the mood throughout the Lodge. It felt good to be surrounded by the hushed simplicity of early evening. But as I reveled in the quiet moment, a woman’s voice came from nearby.
“Well, hello again,” she said with a haughty pitch. “It really is a small world, isn’t it?”
When I turned around, I saw Francine Tobin, the snobbish attorney who had stopped at Sky High earlier in the day. I forced myself to smile as she came closer. There was a man trailing behind her a few paces. He looked like one of the athletic models that advertisers use to peddle cologne, leather jackets and sports cars. His complexion looked impossibly smooth and his full lips were like sculpted swoops of pink dough. His hair was thick and wavy, molded to his head with what seemed gallons of something glossy. He was dressed in faded jeans, hiking boots and a navy shawl-collar sweater.
“Did you come to chat about our offer?” Francine said, casting a quick glance at Mr. Handsome.
My face hurt from holding the smile in place, but I wasn’t going to let down my guard. “Um. No, I had a delivery to make.”
She actually looked disappointed for a brief moment before the icebergs reappeared in her eyes. “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt for you two to meet.” Her frosty gaze bounced from me to the man in the blue sweater. “Miss Reed,” she said with a flourish of theatrical affectation. “This is Mr. Christopher Edgerly.”
He offered his hand. When our fingers touched, I wasn’t surprised by the glove-soft skin. He looked like the kind of guy who slept in cocoa butter to preserve his youthful glow.
“It’s most definitely a pleasure,” he said in a smoky British accent. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
The smile on my face cracked. “To what?” I asked. “Meeting me in the parking lot of the Crescent Creek Lodge?”
I didn’t expect his laugh to sound so much like burled oak and steel. It was solid and brawny, fading into the frosty air in slow, cascading rolls of cheerfulness.
“Well, meeting you,” he said. “I hadn’t anticipated the where of it exactly.”
The where of it, my inner killjoy sniped. Does he think we’re in a Hugh Grant movie or something?
“Okay, so…” I glanced at Francine Tobin. She looked like an unhappy elf who’d just learned that Santa Claus isn’t hiring for the season. “It was nice to see you again. But if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I—”
“Mr. Edgerly is my client,” the forlorn sprite announced. “He has great interest in acquiring your property, Miss Reed.”
Aha! chirped the voice in my head. Another mystery solved.
“Yes, I had hoped we might sit down over dinner to discuss my offer,” said the good-looking shark. “I’m most interested in making it very worth your while, Kate.”
My first name sounded hollow and tarnished coming from his collagen-enhanced lips. Even so, I managed to bolster my withering grin into another gleaming smile as I explained that Sky High Pies wasn’t on the market.
“What did you think of our proposal?” asked Francine Tobin.
“Well…I think it’s still sitting unopened on my desk,” I answered. “And, once again, that’s because Sky High isn’t for sale. I’ve only just taken over from my parents, so—”
“Only just?” the attorney scoffed. “It’s been several months, Miss Reed.”
I ignored her completely; my gaze was locked on Christopher Edgerly’s translucent jade eyes. For a brief moment, I felt the magnetism of his splendor, the undeniable allure of his gorgeous appearance. But then I snapped out of it and told them both that I was exhausted and would take a look at the proposal soon as a courtesy.
“Soon?” Edgerly smiled. “As in…tonight?”
I shrugged. “It will probably be tomorrow, actually. I’ve had a long day. And I’m meeting someone for dinner in a few minutes.”
“Very well,” said Francine Tobin. “In that case, I’ll plan on calling you the day after tomorrow. Mr. Edgerly and I will be conducting business in Crescent Creek for the rest of the week, but we’ll clear our calendar the moment you’re ready to sign the papers.”
As they walked away toward the hotel’s front entrance, I got into my car and started the engine. Then I leaned my head on the steering wheel, took a deep breath and counted to ten.
I know what you’re thinking, my inner voice whispered. And I know it rhymes with rich!
CHAPTER 8
Since the shortest route to Luigi’s Ristorante went by Uncommon Grounds, I decided to mak
e a quick stop and satisfy my curiosity about something. If Dean Oxford was behind the counter, I could ask him confidentially about Bitsy Sanger. He was the owner of the popular java joint and one of my favorite fellow entrepreneurs; trading tips on new suppliers and vendors had become a monthly tradition since I took over Sky High earlier in the year.
“Hey, Katie,” he said as I navigated the crowded coffee shop. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, thanks. How are you?”
He raised both hands and imitated the oscillating motion of a teeter-totter. “Jeremiah quit without notice,” he mumbled. “And somebody put an entire roll of paper towels into the toilet in the men’s room.”
I winced. “So sorry to hear the news,” I said. “Especially about the clogged-up toilet.”
“It’s clear now!” Dean grinned triumphantly. “Thanks to Homer Dratch!”
“Ah, the best plumber in the world!”
“And the richest,” Dean joked. “From what he charges. But I’m not really complaining. I was grateful he could swing by so quickly and help me out.”
I nodded. “You feel like fixing me a decaf cappuccino?”
“Sure thing. Regular or flavored?”
“I’ll go with regular, please. And make it a small. I drank about a gallon of coffee when I was over at the Lodge this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” Dean started to work on my drink, grinding beans and tamping the results into the portafilter. “How’s Connie doing?”
I didn’t like being the bearer of bad news, but I wanted to be honest. I told Dean about the body. I told him that the police were conducting the official investigation. And then I mentioned that there was a cup from his place at the scene. When he heard that final detail, his cheerful grin went flat.
“Wow! Do you think…”
I shrugged. “It could be a coincidence.”
“Was it marked?” asked Dean. “Or was it blank?”
“It had today’s date,” I told him. “Along with the name Bitsy.”
I saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. “I’ve been here since we opened,” he said. And I remember that order. It was the only soy latte so far today.”
“Was it Bitsy Sanger?”
Dean shook his head. “No, it was a redhead that I’ve never seen before. When she ordered a skinny soy latte and told me her name, I did a huge double take.” He chuckled softly. “I mean, it’s a small town. And as far as I knew, there’s only one Bitsy living in Crescent Creek. It just seemed like an interesting coincidence for someone with the very same first name to order a skinny soy latte.”
“Because that’s Bitsy Sanger’s favorite?”
“Yep. It’s actually the only thing she orders.”
“And she wasn’t in today?”
Dean shrugged. “Like I said, the skinny soy latte earlier was ordered by a redhead. She was wearing some of those stretchy yoga pants, running shoes and a parka.”
“Sounds comfortable,” I said, smiling.
“Suppose so.”
“Did you talk to her at all?”
He answered by rolling his eyes. “They were six deep at the counter, Katie. And, like I told you, the toilet was overflowing and Jeremiah had screwed me over. On top of that, Reverend Tuttle was here with his weekday Bible group, so the place was packed.”
“Sounds like it was kind of…hectic?” I offered a sympathetic smile as Dean put my cappuccino on the counter.
“You can say that again. It was busy and people weren’t happy about the hall over there being flooded.” He shrugged. “Not that I could do much about it besides keep running back with a mop.”
“Right,” I said. “Or close down until Homer came to the rescue.”
Dean finally managed a weary smile. “Which he did, actually. Right about the time that redhead in the stretchy pants was leaving.”
“With the soy latte marked Bitsy?”
When I reached into my pocket, he waved one hand and said it was on the house. Then he said, “Oh, yeah! I almost forgot—the redhead stopped to talk to someone from the Bible group.”
“Do you recall who it was?”
He frowned. “I wish I could, Katie. But Homer was coming in, two old guys were arguing over by the window there and…” A groan finished the list. “You know how it goes? Some days are crazier than others.”
“Yeah, of course. And don’t sweat it; Reverend Tuttle comes into Sky High just about every day, so I can ask if he happened to know the woman.”
“Cool,” Dean said with a grin. “Why are you so interested in the redhead?”
“I was just curious about something,” I said. “It’s an old habit from my days in Chicago.”
“Oh, right! I get that; once a detective, always a detective.”
“Much to the consternation of some people named Trent Walsh.”
Dean chuckled. “He was in this morning.”
“How was Deputy Chief Walsh?” I asked. “Did he mind his manners?”
“Always. He and Dina were in with some guy from Denver.”
“Oh, really? I wonder if it was Adam Caldwell.”
Trent had introduced me to Adam when I was conducting another recent investigation as a favor to my neighbor. Besides being a nice guy with impeccable manners, Adam Caldwell was a top-notch detective with the Denver Police Department.
“I didn’t catch his name,” Dean said. “It looked like they were discussing police business, so I didn’t try to make small talk.”
“Wise choice,” I said. “Trent can get pretty crabby if you—”
Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
“—interrupt him when it’s a serious conversation.”
“Hey, if you don’t mind, I should take this,” he said, glancing at the screen. “Good seeing you, Katie! I’ll have to stop by soon for breakfast or lunch.”
“Or a slice of pie!” I said, heading for the door.
CHAPTER 9
Luigi Benedetto was pacing on the sidewalk in front of his namesake restaurant when I arrived a few minutes before eight. His hand was wrapped in a white towel, he was sipping a glass of red wine and the few words I heard him mumble were common vulgarities that sounded slightly less offensive in Italian.
“Hey, Luigi!”
He wobbled around in my direction. “Miss Kate! I’m glad to see you!”
I nodded at his swaddled hand. “What happened?”
He touched the glass of wine to his forehead. “My stupid brain is what happened! I was on the line, sautéing a beautiful piece of veal, when I somehow slipped on the floor. Instead of reaching out to the left for the opposite counter, I went to my right.” He chuckled loudly. “And, kaboom! Wouldn’t you know it! My hand went down on the grill before I could stop myself!”
“Oh, no! How bad is the burn?”
He chuckled and made a face. “Nothing I can’t handle! My wife sent me out here with a splash of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and an ice pack.” He raised the injured hand. “As soon as the wine is gone, I’ll be right back inside. I can’t leave Bruno alone in the kitchen too long. We’ve got a full house and a bunch of chattering hens took over the private dining room for a party.”
“Right,” I said. “The group that was originally supposed to be at Connie Larson’s tonight.”
“Yes, I couldn’t believe the news when she called me earlier,” Luigi said with a frown. “It’s so tragic that someone died over there this afternoon.”
“He was found in the gazebo,” I said. “The police are trying to identify him and figure out what happened.”
His eyes widened. “Oh! So they don’t even know who it is yet?”
I shook my head.
“That’s interesting,” Luigi said. “I heard it was Ira Newman.”
I wasn’t familiar with the name, so I asked Luigi to explain.
“You don’t know Ira?” His booming laugh rang out again. “He’s a scrawny beanpole from up in South Dakota. Moved to Crescent Creek a couple months back, supposedly to open
a business with his brother-in-law. But then their loan fell through and Ira started getting really depressed. I was talking to a guy at the bank last week. He said it wouldn’t surprise him if Ira ended up killing himself because of the business troubles.”
Since I didn’t know Ira Newman, I didn’t feel comfortable commenting on the rumors. Instead, I told Luigi that I hoped he was wrong about the man. “Maybe things will turn around for Mr. Newman,” I said optimistically. “Maybe he can get a new loan and open his business anyway.”
Luigi shrugged. “Maybe. But does this town really need another gin joint?”
“Ira was opening a bar?”
“That’s right. When Red Hancock heard the news, he got real upset.”
“I can see that. The Wagon Wheel has a very loyal following, but there’s always a chance some of his regulars might try a new place and change their stripes.”
“Change their what?”
“Their stripes,” I repeated as the front door opened behind me. “Like, they’ll go to a new bar and decide they prefer it instead of—”
“Hey, Katie!”
I glanced over my shoulder. Zack Hutton stood in the doorway, grinning and gesturing me inside. My heart fluttered as it always did when I saw his face and heard his voice.
“Will you excuse me, Luigi?”
The heavyset man in the chef’s coat raised his glass. “Here’s to the happiest couple in Crescent Creek!” He took a long drink. “And here’s to my hand not throbbing so badly that I can’t cook your dinner!”
After I gave Zack a quick kiss, we went inside and settled in at our usual table near the fireplace. The crowded dining room was warm and toasty, buzzing with conversation and laughter. Our first official dinner date had taken place at the popular Italian restaurant; we’d also returned several times in the past few months to enjoy the delicious cuisine and cozy ambiance.
“I’m sorry about changing the time,” I apologized. “There was some trouble at Connie Larson’s place when I stopped by to deliver an order.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said. “I ran into a guy that works at the hotel earlier. Is it true they found a body?”
